


Voudrais-tu me loger?

by laughingacademy



Category: Scaramouche - Rafael Sabatini
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lucid Dreaming, Past Character Death, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingacademy/pseuds/laughingacademy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scaramouche visits old haunts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voudrais-tu me loger?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFierceBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/gifts).



One night in December of 1790, André-Louis Moreau opened his eyes and found himself standing in front of the house of M. Rabouillet, in Gavrillac. His feelings upon seeing his childhood domicile were pleasure mingled with surprise, for it had been two years since he had last set eyes upon it or spoken to its owner, the village attorney who had shared his hearth and, later, his law practice with a foundling. Furthermore, he had no recollection of how he had been transported there from his rooms at No. 13, Rue du Hasard, Paris, where he had supped on ham washed down with vin gris before stretching out on his chaise lounge to catch up on his reading. Admittedly, he had taken a moment to rest his eyes …

“So my dreams have brought me back to Brittany,” he mused aloud. “I never realized I was such a sentimentalist.”

He turned to look at the rest of the village. Snow had fallen, and every house wore a white mantle. No lights showed in any of the windows, and only the faintest wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys. Clearly, the good people of Gavrillac, one and all, had snuffed their candles, banked their fires, and gone to bed.

“Very sensible of them,” said André-Louis, rubbing his hands (which, he was pleased to note, were gloved), “and all the better for me. I may wander at my leisure and enjoy the scene. What a fine night!”

It was a beautiful evening, but also a cold one, and André-Louis was glad that he’d been outfitted for this oneiric adventure in his hat, greatcoat, and high boots as well as his gloves. Every detail was clear, even vibrant. The full, pale moon, which sported a brilliant halo, seemed close enough to give credence to the wildest tales of de Bergerac, and its radiance, reflected by the snowdrifts, refracted here and there into dazzling glints in ice and frost, gave the oh-so-familiar vista an eldritch glamour. André-Louis, strolling further into the village, caught himself wondering how one could reproduce the effect onstage. 

Occasionally, he strayed from the trodden paths into virgin territory to enjoy the squeak and groan of fresh snow beneath his knee-boots. At other times, when he could trace the tracks of an earlier traveller, he would attempt to match his stride to theirs, setting his feet into the prints they had left. With such boyish diversions, it took him several minutes to reach the parish close by the crossroads at the heart of Gavrillac. He was singing softly to himself, an old carol he had learned from his godfather’s seneschal.

“ _‘“Du petit salé je veux avoir qu'il y a sept ans qu'est dans le saloir.” Quand le boucher entendit ça, hors de la porte il s'enfuya.’_ Faith, but I have a prodigious memory,” he muttered as he approached the arch over the churchyard’s main entrance. “Or possibly an excellent imagination.”

“But no modesty,” said someone within the close. André-Louis started at the voice — it was wholly unexpected, yet achingly familiar. 

A dark figure drew nearer, chuckling. “Come now, no riposte? I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words.” 

Whether they considered him a patriot, a traitor, or merely an opportunistic adventurer, everyone who had dealings with M. Moreau conceded that he was a brave man. In the course of his brief, tumultuous career he had faced hostile bureaucrats, suspicious lawmen, rowdy theatre audiences, angry mobs, and would-be assassins with aplomb. On this occasion, he was not brave. Why should he be? There is no call for bravery in the absence of fear, and he felt none as the other person, apparently daunted by his continued silence, stopped a yard away and said, “André-Louis?”

Philippe de Vilmorin was much as André-Louis remembered him, in black clothes set off by white bands at his neck and wrists and silver buckles on his shoes. Oddly, his brown hair, which he customarily wore clubbed, was loose about his shoulders. If he was somewhat paler than had been his wont, well, it was winter.

It took but a second for André-Louis to see all this before he stepped forward and threw his arms around his friend, crying out, “Philippe!”

The two clung together for a moment, Philippe’s hair tickling André-Louis’s nose, before the taller man leaned back and smiled. “You look so well! Come, you must tell me everything you’ve done since you left.”

Arm in arm, they left the parish close and started up the road that led from the village of Gavrillac to the chateau of the same name. André-Louis lost track of time as he recounted his exploits over the past two years: addressing the citizens of Nantes as Omnes Omnibus; touring with the Binet Troupe as Scaramouche; becoming the Paladin of the Third Estate, scourge of les spadassinicides. 

They were just passing the Breton Armé, and André-Louis was wondering how much to tell concerning the duel with le Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr, when Philippe exclaimed, “It seems my death was the making of you!”

André-Louis stumbled, and a low moan escaped from behind his clenched teeth. “My God…”

“Oh! I’m sorry, it was a bad joke.”

“I would give it all up.” He grasped his friend by the shoulders as he added, “My reputation, my position, all of it, I would cast it on a pyre if it would give you one more day, one more hour, of life —”

With that, André-Louis Moreau, renowned for his sangfroid, broke down weeping. He was dimly aware of being led through the inn’s yard to the bench beside its front door. When he was urged to sit, he pulled Philippe down so the two were beside each other, knees knocking.

Strange to say, André-Louis had never, strictly speaking, grieved for his friend. From the moment he had seen Philippe run through, he had been so obsessed with exacting vengeance for the act that he had never taken time simply to mourn it. He did so now.

When the tears had passed, Philippe offered him a handkerchief. “Here, dry your face before it freezes.”

André-Louis did so, with a shuddering sigh. 

“What were you singing earlier?”

“Eh? Oh, that song Bénoît taught us the first winter after Aline came to Gavrillac. Remember?”

“The one about Saint Nicholas and the butcher? Of course!”

André-Louis managed a watery giggle. “Poor Aline, she wouldn’t eat pork for a week after she heard that.”

“I wonder if M. le Marquis knows it?” When André-Louis looked at him sharply, Philippe sang, _“Repens-toi, Dieu te pardonnera.”_

“La Tour d’Azyr will never repent. To do so, he’d have to acknowledge doing wrong. Nor would he accept being addressed as ‘Tu,’ even by a saint.” He absently crumpled Philippe’s handkerchief and thrust it in a coat pocket. “Or was that directed at me?”

Philippe shook his head. “I don’t claim to possess the confidence of the Almighty. It’s for you to determine if you need God’s pardon.”

“Do _you_ forgive me?”

That earned him an astonished stare. “For what?”

“For letting him murder you.”

Philippe performed a most unecclesiastical eyeroll. “Did you know beforehand that he was going to kill me?”

“No. I thought his sense of honor” — André-Louis sneered the last word — “would keep him from doing you serious harm.”

“Then there is nothing to forgive on your side. As for me, I am sorry I ever accused you of being heartless.”

André-Louis shrugged. “I gave you cause enough to think so.”

“Still, I should have known better.” Philippe rose from the bench. “And with that, I must take my leave of you.”

“Already?” The protest was pro forma, for André-Louis could see a flush in the eastern skies that hinted at the coming dawn. “Well, then. Perhaps we shall meet again in Purgatory.”

“I trust so. Behave yourself, Scaramouche.” 

“Pray for me, M. l’abbé.”

They embraced, and kissed each other on the cheek, and then Philippe set off across the yard. André-Louis followed him to the road and stood watching as his friend walked back the way they had come. It seemed to the observer that the tall, slender figure was receding faster than his stride would account for, and that a mist had come between them ...

… and then André-Louis awoke. His candles had burned down to their holders and gone out, while the night’s fire was reduced to embers. He rose, set a new log in the hearth, and read the time on the mantel clock.

“May as well wash and change my clothes,” he mumbled, and did so.

It was some hours later, after that day’s session of the Legislative Assembly, that Representative Moreau, while in conversation with his colleague Isaac le Chapelier, reached absently into his coat pocket in search of his pipe and instead pulled out a square of fine white linen, somewhat soiled, with the initials “P d V” embroidered in one corner.

“What’s that you have there?” Le Chapelier asked, his curiosity piqued by Moreau’s sudden stillness.

“A token. It belonged to Philippe de Vilmorin. Do you remember him?”

“I remember his opposition when I would have had you expelled from the Literary Chamber of Rennes.” In reaction to the other man’s amused look, he added, “It’s just as well I failed. Have you been carrying that all this time?”

André-Louis started to say something, checked himself, and asked, “Is today St. Nicholas Day?”

“Why, so it is. I had forgotten.”

“As had I. Good night, Chapelier. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Moreau.” 

An impulse made Le Chapelier glance back after a few steps. He saw Moreau clutch the handkerchief to his breast, head bowed, and then carefully fold it and place it back in his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place between chapters XI and XII of "Book III: The Sword" in _Scaramouche_.
> 
> "The wildest tales of de Bergerac" is a reference to _L’Autre monde ou les états et empires de la Lune,_ a novel-length, first-person account of a trip to the moon by the 17th-century author (and duelist) Cyrano de Bergerac. I thought it safe to assume the well-read André-Louis would know his works.
> 
> St. Nicholas, a 4th-century bishop renowned for his philanthropy, is considered one of the inspirations for Santa Claus. His feast day is the anniversary of his death, December 6, 343. In 1790, it fell on a Monday.
> 
> The title and the lyrics quoted in the story are from "La Legende de Saint Nicolas," a 16th-century French song about the saint's miraculous resurrection of three boys who had been murdered, dismembered, and put into a salting tub by a butcher. André-Louis's verse is the moment Saint Nicholas reveals his knowledge of the crime (I'd translate the lines, "'The pork I would like is that which has been brining seven years.' When the butcher heard this, out the door he fled"), while Philippe's is the saint's reassurance to the guilty man. The full lyrics are available at [StNicholasCenter.org](http://www.stnicholascenter.org/pages/saint-nicolas/#i_9).
> 
> The title can be translated as "Would you accommodate me?" or "Would you like me to stay?"


End file.
